Mercy
by Wespe
Summary: "No one tells you about deserts. It's misery, a hell of sorts, given form. No life, no comfort, no civilization, just dust. Miles and miles of barren soil, devoid of any signs of existence, hope, or love. Just hollow land."


No one tells you about deserts. Sure, they tell you it's hot, as if that wasn't a given, but they never tell you just how hot. How the merciless rays of the overbearing sun peel away at your pasty skin, and the harsh sand burns your feet, or how you try to spit out the fine particles caught in your mouth but can't, and you slowly choke to death on your own spittle, because there isn't enough water left on your tongue to allow you to spit. It isn't just hot; it's unbearable. It's misery, a hell of sorts, given form; no life, no comfort, no civilization, just dust and miles of barren soil, devoid of any signs of existence, hope, or love; just hollow land.

The irony: it's a perfect place to hide something. Oh, yes, a remote place to store valuables. Good idea for anyone who wants to keep their concealed items away from pesky noses. And it worked. Why would anyone come to this god-forsaken place? To anyone who didn't know what they were looking for, they wouldn't. But I would. I'm just that foolish, naive, impertinent; none of that matters now, none of it; it's only a slow trek downwards from here into that black abyss known as death.

What to God, I would not gladly give, for a small drink. Anything to make the thirst go away. It's the harsh reality of it all that makes it so foreboding. Everything is finite here, precious beyond belief. It's only when you have nothing that you suddenly realize just how much it's really worth, and how much you abused it. All the water wasted on such frivolous activities. My tongue becomes a numb organ in my throat, like a mass of dried coal.

As I lie here, helplessly alone in this barren place, I can't help but think: did I really deserve to die like this? Was this nature's way of offing me in a way that seemed to fit me? Forlorn, forsaken, and forgotten? I only wish I knew the answer. In retrospect, that ambition that I cherished hours before suddenly seemed as if it was more of a gamble than a pursuit. I chose to come here, of my own free will. Damn the consequences if I knew them. The prize was so close; I had it in my fingertips, the one object that defies the laws of the universe. Was it all worth it? Was I really thinking I would have to stake my entire future on it?

No, but in an air-conditioned cockpit, anything seems possible. Air conditioning...my head swoons at the thought. I realize that I will never be found. Some deaths, after all, go unreported. They won't look for me. I'll just drop off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. Sure, they will look. I know my parents care enough to look. To what avail? I will just become another facet of the bleak scenery. Bleach bones under a tempest sun. Until the desert winds and aeons of time carry me away, until I'm nothing but dust. And I will be forgotten. Another part of the endless cycle that many believe has gone on endlessly.

What does it all mean?

They tell you in kindergarten that you could grow up to be the next world leader, or find a cure no one has found before, or discover a lost civilization. It was just appeasement to me. High-ideals, noble causes, crusades, hopeless optimism bundled up into a disgusting idealism to lull us to sleep and make us joyful about our futures. Or was it? Dying makes you put your life into perspective, it seems. At the end of all things, given the chance to see your death coming and assessing your own understanding was the measure of your deeds. What difference did Jack Spicer make to the world? In his short time here, what did he do to make the world a better place?

There's no need for lies. What's the point? Let me admit the truth here and now: I didn't. I tried to imprint myself on it. I saw the world as my own, for me to do with as I pleased, and was consumed with why somebody didn't bow when I walked by. Poisoned by selfishness, greed, and despotism. In a way, I guess this was a suiting, if not karmic death for me. To die forgotten in the most undramatic and non-theatrical way possible. Slowly, broiling to death while I crawl along the sand, hoping I'll find something. How the once-mighty Jack has fallen. He, who at one point thought himself invincible and stood so tall, had to die on his belly, groveling before nature's might

No, I will not die like that. I will die on my feet. I try to get my fragile arms to pull myself up. I manage to scoot a little, sliding my knees into a smile pile of sand in front of me. Gradually easing myself up, I let one foot up, so I'm in the kneeling position. Then, I propel my arms up and stand to my feet, slowly, ever so slowly. I'm standing. Alright, let's see if I can walk. I try to put one foot forward, but it starts shaking violently. It sputters, and I can't control it; I collapse into the sand, face first.

I let the instantly evaporated tears run down the side of my face as I sob bitterly at my plight. It was a hopeless situation. They say when people come to these kinds of situations, it makes a person find faith where they had none. Perhaps I was letting the heat get to my head, or maybe somewhere I felt a morsel of hope it might work, but I bury my head in the sand, "I'm not sure if I've ever believed in you." I croak out in my hoarse voice, "I'm not sure if you exist now. But please, don't let it end this way. Don't let me die. If there is a God, any God! Please, have pity on me. I'm begging you. I'm afraid." I keep repeating those last two words over and over until I break down into more tears.

Then, a breeze rolls in. I feel a slight wind over my back. I look up and the sun has disappeared behind a single cloud, floating in the sky; a little, insignificant fragment of water condensed in this arid, inhospitable land, which casts a shadow to relieve me from the sun. I bask in its deliverance, cherishing its coolness. It still isn't going to mean I am going to live, but it is enough to convince me to keep going. I try crawling. And I notice that in the sky, the one cloud becomes many. That one cloud split into seven clouds, each of equal size and dimension and formed a line across the sun. All around the sun still shined, but where I seemed to tread, the shadows moved with me.

Then, past those clouds, the huge front of a darkened mass rolls over the far mountains and stiffens into the valley below, darkening the entire scenery as it begins to rain. It's glorious rain, a rain of salvation. It gives me a spirit of hope, a drive. The thunder rolls and the lightning clashes and the desert sands are moistened; I stand on my own two feet and laugh.


End file.
